CAR ALARMS

There was a car alarm going off at Sainsbury’s today. It was a high G I reckon, on the beat, around 140 beats per minute.

They’re always regular aren’t they those noises? I think if it were up to me I’d have designed it with a rhythm so you could tell it was your car more easily. Where’s your car? It’s over there playing the bossa nova.

Then we watched a Nissan back into a car parking space. The reversing alert sounded like a slipper hitting a wind chime. It’s quite a weird sound actually, clearly programmed to be relaxing like a sort of new age yoga tape. Reversing into a space at Sainsbury’s is of course, anything but relaxing. Even if you get it perfectly right you still have to contort your body to get out, without scratching the next car over.

I still think a little off-beat rhythm would liven it up. Instead of beep, beep, beep, beep, you could have beep, beep, bippidy beep. Beep bippidy beep beep or even bip beep, beep-bippidy beep.

I’m not suggesting morse code by the way. Neither do I for one minute think a melody line would help either. There may have been a revolution in doorbell chimes but nobody needs to hear La Cucuracha on repeat in the Sainsbury’s car park. No, rhythm only for car alarms.

Do you ever wonder why I’m not in charge of things?

A SEA OF THINGS I DON’T LIKE VERY MUCH

Sometimes I have to go to London. Now, if you were to draw a graph of the most expensive places to be (x axis) and the least likeable (y), London would absolutely be disappearing off the top right corner.

Old news I know. I witter about it every time I come here, but today’s journey involved broken escalators, delayed trains, standing-room only, armpits, running from Paddington to Baker Street like a loon, and being squished unpleasantly by the doors of the tube.

Worse still, after all that, you get there and you’re in London. It’s like someone’s charged you £300 to use the toilet, insisted you pay it in coins, and then when you get there they show you to a portaloo.

I shouldn’t really compare this gigantic sparkling city to a toilet. That does seem rude, and I can only apologise if you’re a Londoner, or you absolutely love the place. I don’t mean to get scatalogical - it’s just that the things I like about London are to me like gleaming islands of a wonder (the National Gallery, St Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, the indomitable spirit of the people) in a sea of things I don’t like very much, and my opinion (and it is only an opinion) is - I’d rather be working in Oxford.

It’s a busy day too. I’m bewildered by how much I have to do and what comes first. It’s as though the rush and bustle of the place is seeping out into the air, stressing everybody out. Well not everybody…

“So do you think we actually went to the moon?” asked Andy, twinkling in the corner.

A debate followed. I decided early on to keep quiet; I know where those things end, and I was staying out of it. Sure enough, the subtleties turned into philosophical questions, until somebody said…

“Well it’s only history if it happened.”

At which point I piped in with, “That is profound!” - which it is. I had wanted to go on about how you can see the tracks on the lunar surface, view the lander through a telescope, listen to interviews of corroborating testimony, and blow apart almost every single argument about wobbling flags, camera angles and a starless backdrop. But I didn’t.

It’s only history if it happened. It’s profound because history is both the thing that happened and the way we interpret it. It’s the record of a thing; a view of a real event, and the event itself. Like the moon landings. We call them both history, even when the view is different to the reality.

I suppose London is foggy streets and a doff of the cap then, if you want it to be. Cheeky chappies Dick-Van-Dyking around every lamplit corner if you want to believe it. Except it isn’t. It’s a sea with very few glistening islands, and only a memory of all that wonder from film and literature and yes, history.

I looked out of the window at the grey sky above the shadowed brick and glass. I can’t wait to get home, I thought.

PRECIOUS TIME

One consequence of living in multiple tensions is that a decision to go somewhere - really matters. 

What I mean is that it has cost a lot to be at a thing; saying yes to it, turning up, being present has also meant saying no to all the other things vying for my time. I’ve considered this worth it.

I suppose there are two ways to view this. First of all, I’m saying that my time, energy and effort are super-expensive. You’re lucky to have me here. In fact, in the great race of things-I-could-be-doing-right-now, this has won, and for whatever reason, I’m expending my most precious resource just to be here, when I could have chosen something else.

If that sounds a little arrogant, I understand. But it’s only because time is not free and life isn’t infinite. If you were down to your last £100 I’m fairly sure you’d be very careful about what you spent it on. In the world of many tensions, you have to make many tough decisions, and one of them is to value your time like the rare and exquisite gift it is.

The second way to look at it is from the point of view of inviting people to something. If resources are stretched, and if they really have said no to a dozen other things they could have been doing, how am I going to make this worthwhile for them, now that they’ve said yes? How can I send them home happy to have been with me, thankful that they spent their time-budget on this event, this conversation, this catch-up? How can I make it worth it?

December’s coming. Sammy and I are planning each day meticulously now, just to make sure we’ve got a great balance in the busiest month. It’s pretty difficult but I guess it starts with that realisation of how valuable our time is. And yours.

I HAD AN IDEA FOR A TV SHOW

“Welcome,” says our bespectacled host, Tess Daley, “To Strictly Come Philosophising”

The audience politely sit as the string quartet play two bars of the theme tune. Perhaps there’s a whoop from someone ecxitable who’s brought their own kitkat.

“And a big thank you to our professional philosophers for that spectacular opening dialogue on - the question of ‘morality in a presentist or eternalist universe’. We will be thinking about that for some moments.”

The co-host, and yes it would still be Claudia, pipes in.

“Yes indeed, maybe forever. Now, in last night’s special our couples delighted us with their routines, giving it everything from ‘the exercising of free will’ to ‘is our universe really just Plato’s cave?’…”

“From ‘determinism’ to ‘duality of meaning’…”

“… and a hilarious take on ‘what happens to your soul if you were to die in a Star Trek transporter beam’…”

The audience chuckle as though a member of the floor crew had just held up a massive board saying ‘Best medicine or social bonding construct?’

“Before we find out how you voted,” says Tess, “Let’s have a recap of how our… philosophising couples… did…”

Cue VT.

I think it could work you know. Celebrities, many of whom wouldn’t be used to thinking deeply about things, paired up with dusty academics who teach them philosophy for the benefit of the viewing public. Montages of the training room, Tricia complaining about how her head’s hurting while Jedward struggle with logical reasoning at the lecture theatre blackboard…

“So you’re saying all cows are brown?”

“Course I’m not saying that. I’m talking extra-pol-ation. Cows are clearly observed Edward…”

-

Tess: “The first couple to face the debate-off is…”

Strings, probably a long low cello. Candlelight flickers.

“Wayne Rooney and Professor Donahue from the University of Stuttgart!”

-

“Yeah you know like I had a feeling it’d be me, like, it’s fate or summit like that,” says Wayne. Professor Donahue clips her glasses back to the bridge of her nose.

“I’m so proud of zis man’s journey,” she says in a clipped kind of voice. “Now all we have to do is to go out there and give it the two hundred per cent on the Freudian notion of attraction yes?”

-

Well I’d watch it.

WORD OF THE YEAR

Here’s the Cambridge Dictionary’s word of the year for 2024.

“Manifest (v): To use methods such as visualisation and affirmation to help you imagine achieving something you want, in the belief that doing so will make it more likely to happen.”

Nicely put. Apparently Dua Lipa manifested herself on-stage at Glastonbury, and lo, there she was! Not to mention the gymnast Simone Biles, who would obviously be stacking shelves at Walmart had she not visualised gold medals and Olympic greatness.

Don’t let me get snippy. It’s just that reducing success to this weird idea that you can get what you want simply by thinking about it - is really depressing.

Also, when did we all turn into mystic wizards? I mean, I don’t want to jump on a bandwagon but waving a wand around and declaring yourself a penguin, well - it doesn’t make you a penguin any more than the act of imagining and chanting to yourself that you are a pop star or an incredible sports person, actually makes you one.

Now. Two things. I’m not having a go at penguins. If you want to be a penguin, you get yourself to wherever penguins are from and go be a penguin. Penguins are awesome. I mean you’ll miss out on all the lovely things that humans have, but that at least will be in common with… every other penguin… so fair enough.

Second. I’m not saying that manifesting is a bad idea. Actually, it makes perfect sense to focus on what you want; to be laser-guided by your beautiful imagination, and to really see yourself getting there. 

That is great!

But listen. Don’t just do that. Do the other stuff that’s needed - buy a pommel horse or singing lessons, or the Usborne Book of Penguins or something. Put the work in too, and in the context of your efforts, your determination will be fuelled by your aim - whether it’s manifestation or not.

And who knows, even if you don’t make it, maybe there’s something beautiful for you on the way. But you won’t find it if you sit there daydreaming.

It’s interesting that it’s the word of the year. I think they calculate it on lots of different metrics like - proliferation online, how often it’s searched for, maybe by survey or by canvassing. It definitely fits with a wider view, a sort of cultural shift towards post-truth mysticism. Say the magic word, visualise the impossible, chant your truth… I think that’s what makes me feel sad, especially when my two great worldviews: faith and science, tell a really different story, a very hopeful story.

Second in the list by the way was ‘brat’. I’ve got no idea what that is.

WHAT’S OLD SANTA UP TO?

I don’t know what Santa’s playing at. These days, instead of dropping lovely pressies down the chimney (as he’s undoubtedly famous for), he’s basically been dragging me round the shop, and making me buy my own gifts, with… wait for it… my own money.

And he still gets the credit! On Christmas morning I’ll still roll my bleary eyes and say, “Thank you Santa,” as though he’s somehow benevolent and yes, behind the whole system. I think he must have had too much eggnog.

Then there are the emails…

“Free delivery on a letter from Santa! Packed in a very authentic looking envelope and stamped from the North Pole! You really can get Christmas off to a magical start for your little one!”

Yes that’s right. This year, old Father Cynicalmas over there is asking for a fee to send his own letters out. That’s like me invoicing everyone on our Christmas card list for the cost of a second class stamp. Merry Christmas; here’s the bill. Oh and a Happy New Year. Unless we have to send the boys round.

Here’s a tip. Thick paper, teabag water and maybe a touch of glitter. Ho ho ho and all that, you know what to do; maybe use a sparkly pen, or even an old fountain pen if you have one. Print out a sticker - Arctic Airmail or Lapland Postal Service or something, and the job’s done. Santa need never know.

And if he does shake a sorry head in his grotto and declares you ‘naughty’ instead of ‘nice’ for such duplicity, you can remind him that another example of ‘naughty’ is extortion. Look it up Santa. Oh and don’t forget to check it twice.

THE MOON WAS SHINING SULKILY

I kept a journal throughout my teenage years. I didn’t tell anyone - I doubted that my pals would understand, without mocking me about doing something they’d have seen as girly and teasing me about sparkly pens and frilly padlocks.

It wasn’t girly though. It was ‘writery’ - a kind of practice pad for learning how to use words to express myself. I’d buy a desk diary, sometimes they were massive, and a proper handwriting pen, and then every night I’d write about how I was feeling about everything. In hindsight it was a fantastic way to get to sleep. I didn’t realise how good it was for me at the time - even though most of what I wrote was kind of nonsense.

It’s probably also the reason I started doing this 11 years ago too! For blindingly obvious reasons, this blog is nowhere near as personal as my teenage journals - but it serves the same sort of purpose. It extracts the nonsense from inside me and then I scribble it somewhere outside of me. And there has been a lot of nonsense.

This is post number 2491. It’s a lot of content. It’s a lot of life! And, now that I think about it, it’s a lot longer than my teenage late-night ramblings! At some point, at university I think, I just stopped doing it, leaving that stack of old desk diaries to gather dust in my parents’ loft. Coded messages, cryptic comments about friends, mimicking the style of my favourite authors, deep and angry, quirky and innocent. I’ve got plainer, I suppose, but it doesn’t feel like too much has changed.

So, 11 years today of this online silliness. Had I been a teenager, I might have done it all through TikTok. In fact, even since I started this in 2013, the art of journalling and blogging has steadily moved in that direction. This feels rather old-fashioned.

But that suits me, doesn’t it?

THE TENSIONS OF THE BUTTERFLIES

There are lots of tensions around at the moment. Is it just me? When I asked a friend about it he just messaged back and said, “Adulting lol” - but… really?

What I mean by tensions is the specific areas of life with no win-win; the decisions where you have to pick something, knowing full well it’s at the cost of something else, and it’s going to hurt whichever way you go. And so you get pulled into tensions, having to let down somebody and hoping that you somehow miraculously choose the path of least resistance.

No wonder my friend said ‘adulting’. I get it. A lot of adulting really is like that. But these tensions are everywhere right now, and there are a perpetual stream of difficult decisions.

I chalk it up to a lack of resources. I keep saying to Sammy that a lot of life feels like we’ve got £100 and two things we’d like very much that both cost £60 each. Decisions ahoy.

Also. How come nobody warns the kids about adulting? The thing about being a child is that 1. It’s brilliant fun, and nobody tells you that that stops one day. 2. It definitely has an end date in a way that adulting just goes on indefinitely. And 3. All the adults doing the adulting tell you it’s going to be better when you get to do it.

That’s a bit like a caterpillar looking forward to being a butterfly but not realising that all the butterflies want to do is sit around chomping leaves. Who’s going to tell them? The butterflies?

Anyway, there are lots of tensions around. Stresses and strains, bending us all beyond our usual shape. See, I think adulting should also be about enjoying the best things in life too, along with all the responsibility pressures. There ought to be art, and love, and culture, and freedom; films and wine and books and travel, laughter and Lego and leaves in the park with kids living their best caterpillary lives while we show them how awesome it truly is to be a butterfly.

IT’S NOT BOXER

Well Happy John Lewis Ad day to you all. That’s the last time I’ll say their name by the way, for reasons I’ll come on to.

As ever, the reviews are mixed. “It’s no bear and hare,” says one reviewer mistily eyeing the past. “Underwhelming!” cries another, lamenting the lack of heart. “Bring back Boxer the dog!”

Funny how the mind works isn’t it? I have a recollection of the Boxer the Dog one being a bit confusing and, perhaps even a little off-beat. It wasn’t sweet that the dog beat the little girl to the trampoline; it was odd. In fact I’m not even sure the bear and the hare one was that well received. And these are high watermarks apparently, compared to the man on the moon and last year’s venus fly trap.

This year’s offering is a bit ‘Narnian Inception’ if you ask me. I got lost at the timeline of what was happening, and then, expecting the end of the thirty second arc to tie up my loose ends, I was more disappointed than moved to tears.

I wasn’t alone in that. Not a classic, says the Internet. You know what? I don’t think they care. Like modern artists, they’d made something that got people talking and like everyone from Marcel Duchamp onwards, the real art is the conversation. And yes, they were trending.

It seems divisive output is the best way to get people talking about you. But then, there are all kinds of people on both sides of the Atlantic who’ve figured that out, aren’t there?

Which is why I only mention the makers of the ad once. I don’t want to talk about them either. It looks like a tear-jerker, but it is as ever, an opinion-stirrer. And that’s more than okay with them.

I like though how, even though it’s more often not that great, this event does seem to kick off the season somehow. Perhaps it’s not as sweet and schmalzy as it’s been in the past, perhaps not as endearing as golden days of yore. But then, I kind of think that that might just be the most Christmassy thing about it.